


Costumes

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'There is absolutely no way I will be doing this with you,' Kyoya says without looking up from his book." Tamaki has another in a long list of ridiculous ideas and Kyoya requires persuasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Costumes

“There is absolutely no way I will be doing this with you,” Kyoya says without looking up from his book.

He’s expecting the outraged noise of protest from Tamaki, the high jump on the other’s voice as he wails, “But  _Kyoya_ ,” as if his pleading in that manner has ever won him what he wanted from the other boy.

“And that is not the way to convince me.” Kyoya turns a page. The book is interesting, enough to hold the half of his attention not given over to tracking the melodramatic flailing of the other boy from the pile of satin and silk he’s currently immersed in.

“But we can’t do it without you,” Tamaki declares.

“This is true,” Kyoya agrees. “I’m looking forward to your attempts to persuade me of the value of this new scheme.”

Tamaki heaves a sigh, one of his long, heavy ones, and that’s enough warning for Kyoya to be expecting the shift of his bed as the other boy throws himself onto it. He counterbalances the book, tips himself sideways, and when Tamaki attempts to fling himself bodily atop the other boy Kyoya is ready, reaching up to interpose a hand between the blond and his body.

“Try again,” he says, although pausing for the pleasure of Tamaki pressed in against him sounds promising. It’s not enough of a bribe to persuade him to this new idea, anymore than the promise of a few titillated customers is enough to sway his opinion. “A  _good_  argument, please, or you’re just wasting my time.”

“It’s a good idea!” Tamaki whimpers, rolling off the bed to sprawl across the floor instead. Kyoya does look at him then, cuts his eyes down to the fall of gold hair over purple eyes; Tamaki is giving his best puppy-dog eyes, but it’s as effective on Kyoya as this technique usually is, which is to say not. Kyoya closes the book around his bookmark, holds it off the edge of the bed so it casts Tamaki’s face in shadow.

“It is not,” and he lets it drop before Tamaki has more than started to flinch away. The impact gets him a yelp of pain and the book goes sliding across the floor, but the damage to the cover is worth it for the wide-eyed shock on Tamaki’s face when he looks back up to find Kyoya leaning off the bed and into his personal space.

“Schoolgirl uniforms, maybe,” he allows, maintaining the flat amusement of his tone even in the face of Tamaki’s stunned stare. “Some light crossdressing is certainly always appreciated. But this goes well beyond a schoolgirl fetish and into excessive, Tamaki.”

“It’s  _accurate_ ,” Tamaki recovers, sitting up so fast it’s only Kyoya’s expectation of his movement that lets him duck sideways to save them both from an unpleasant collision. “We owe it to our audience to be as accurate as possible!”

“And no other costume could possibly be accurate?” Kyoya asks. He’s starting to smile, the sharp edge of the expression catching at the corner of his mouth and dragging his lips taut with amusement.

“This is a  _great_  idea,” Tamaki offers again, petulantly this time. He’s almost where Kyoya wants him, his eyes wide and bright with anxious want. “ _Kyoya_ ,” whining again, long and plaintive, and Kyoya shakes his head as his smile goes wider, reaches past Tamaki’s desperate eyes to retrieve his book. He’s tugged it back to the bed, is opening it back up to his page and returning his attention to the words, but it’s more a show than true distraction; really he’s paying attention to the huff of Tamaki’s frustrated inhales, the pause as he considers his option. The capitulation should be coming right about…

“Isn’t there anything I can do to convince you?”

Kyoya doesn’t bother holding back the way his smile goes wide, or the fact that he glances over at Tamaki without even attempting to feign distraction. They both know he’s interested, now, or at least Tamaki should know as much if he’s not completely blind.

“Put one on,” Kyoya says, drawling the words long and slow and hot on his tongue. “Show me how it looks on you, and I’ll reconsider.”

Tamaki blinks. Kyoya can see understanding flicker at the back of his violet eyes, intuition leaping ahead of any need for overt statement. His gaze skips sideways, down to the edge of Kyoya’s jeans, even though there’s nothing to see there but the soft edge of the other boy’s sweater and the dark denim of the pants. It doesn’t really matter. The shift of his eyes is enough to give away his appreciation of Kyoya’s meaning, the motion of his mouth coming barely open enough to speak to his willingness well before he says “Okay, I will” and retreats towards the cascade of jewel-bright fabrics in a heap on the floor.

Kyoya sits up to watch Tamaki change. His interest is already explicit, after all, and there’s obvious benefit to be gained just from the pale curve of Tamaki’s back as he peels his shirt off. He looks less foolish with less clothing, stronger and more athletic and more adult, like the constraints of his t-shirt and jeans are tethering him to childhood as much as to his style; Kyoya always finds that fascinating, as interesting as the way Tamaki’s unconscious motions are always far more graceful than his deliberate ones. Or maybe he’s just biased, more drawn to the thoughtless elegance that is Tamaki out-of-character than the overblown drama of the prince character he usually adopts. It’s an interesting question, one he turns over in his head a few times before tucking it away for future consideration; right now he has more important things to focus on.

Like the motion of Tamaki’s legs, as he steps out of his jeans with no visible evidence of self-consciousness and fishes a dress out of the heap. He’s clearly put thought into this; from where he’s sitting Kyoya can see the garments vary wildly in size, from one obviously intended for Honey to a matched pair for the twins and a dark purple one he can only assume is intended for him. But the one Tamaki is dragging free is red, heavy with gold embellishment and so overdone with ruffles and frills Kyoya can’t tell which direction is right-way up until Tamaki shakes it out from the shoulders so he can step into the circle of the skirt.

It must have been made custom, from how well it fits on Tamaki’s tall frame. The skirt falls well past his knees, the sleeves catch and cling at his shoulders, and if his hair and face are a giveaway for his boyishness there’s not nearly as much to tell in the clothing itself as Kyoya expects. His eyebrows come up in unwilling admiration as Tamaki ducks his head and starts struggling with fastening up the back of the dress, even the awkward position not enough to fully disguise how well the fabric fits.

Kyoya lets Tamaki struggle for a few minutes, partially because it’s amusing but mostly because there’s something that makes his mouth go dry when he watches the way Tamaki is twisting his arms with more flexibility than Kyoya thought he had. But even when he’s managed most of the buttons -- accuracy apparently doesn’t allow for simplicities like zippers -- there’s a few inches just between his shoulders that he can’t reach, and when Tamaki starts to huff frustration at his failure to reach Kyoya finally takes what serves as pity on him and lifts a hand to gesture the blond in closer.

“They assume you have help getting dressed,” he observes as Tamaki lets his arms drop and approaches, the faint hiss of satin catching on itself accompanying the skip-speed of his feet before he pivots and drops to kneel with his back to Kyoya. His skin looks paler against the dark fabric of the dress, feels hot to the touch when Kyoya presses his fingers against the other boy’s spine as he fastens the stubborn buttons. It’s easy from this angle, only delayed by his hesitation in drawing the cloth shut over Tamaki’s shoulders, and even then it’s only a moment before he’s planting his hand flat at the other boy’s back and pushing to urge him upright. “Turn around and let me see.”

Tamaki does, moving obediently enough if with more flair to the motion than Kyoya really needed. The skirt swings wide, swirls and catches against his knees, and it’s beautiful, in a way only somewhat at odds with his too-short hair and too-strong jaw. That could be worked over, Kyoya determines, overcome with the long gold curls of a wig and made up into a more persuasive appearance, and if he’s not courting the edge of androgyny Kyoya had expected it will likely be better in full flush, wig and makeup and dress and all.

“This may be more appreciated than I anticipated,” he admits, watching the elegant lines of Tamaki’s fingers drag unconscious anxiety over the flaring hips of the dress. His waist looks thinner than usual, with the illusion of curves underneath, and Kyoya’s not sure if it’s the deception or his knowledge of the true body that is heating his blood and thudding harder at his throat. He makes no effort to fight it back -- they both know where this is going -- just lets his knees fall open wider and lifts a hand to gesture the blond in.

And Tamaki comes, obedient as a puppy hoping for a treat. It makes Kyoya smile, even if the expression is turned inward with no warmth to share for the other boy. He reaches out to touch the fabric, lets the rich weight of it catch against his fingertips as he smooths the lines of the drapery and presses against the give of the hips until he can feel the sharp edge of Tamaki’s body under the skirt. He pulls without needing to put words to it, drags against Tamaki until the other takes the hint and drops to his knees in a cascade of rustling fabric, and Kyoya has another surge of warmth at the sheer decadence of this, at his complete unconcern for what becomes of this dress in spite of its clear value.

“You’ll need makeup,” he says, reaching out to tangle a hand in Tamaki’s hair and hold the other still while he unfastens his jeans with his other hand. Tamaki’s eyes are absurdly wide, drinking in all the light around them until they seem to glow from the inside out, but he doesn’t put words to anything approaching a protest, just lets his gaze flicker to Kyoya’s fingers and swallows so hard Kyoya can hear the sound. “And a wig. Right now you’re clearly a boy in a dress.”

“You don’t think that would be popular?” Tamaki asks, some desperate bid to keep the conversation going undermined by the way his voice is trembling and the way his hands are fluttering up like he wants to rest them against the insides of Kyoya’s thighs.

Kyoya’s zipper slides down, the tight-pulled fabric drawing apart in the wake of the motion, and he tightens his hold on Tamaki’s hair as he pushes his boxers down and sufficiently aside. “It would depend on the audience,” he allows, watching Tamaki watch him, savoring the surge of heat into his veins that accompanies that stare. “It is less likely I would have you do this in more effective drag.” He pulls at the fist in Tamaki’s hair, urges the other boy in closer, and Tamaki swallows hard and opens his mouth and obeys, leaning in until Kyoya can feel the hot of the other’s breath against his cock. It surges through him like fire, like all his blood is evaporating to steam, and when his hold goes slack Tamaki makes a noise like he thinks it’s encouragement and ducks in to take Kyoya back past his lips.

It’s too fast, faster than Kyoya was expecting, and in the first jolt of sensation he nearly protests, almost shoves Tamaki away until he can get control of himself again. But Tamaki’s enthusiasm is always better in these situations that Kyoya’s calculation, and after the first flush of too-much heat Kyoya can breathe again, can let himself relax into the warmth like he’s melting and let the tension in his thighs go slack and languid. Tamaki is moving, a sloppy rushed rhythm so quick Kyoya can hear the slick sound of his lips catching against the other’s length, but even the sound is satisfying in a strange way, curls against the arches of Kyoya’s feet until he’s pressing his toes hard against the floor as if seeking traction. Tamaki’s hair is silk-soft under his hand, catches into curls around his fingers, and he has the distant amused thought of the reactions  _this_  would get, if the visitors to the Host Club had occasion to see the prince on his knees and humming broken pleasure against Kyoya’s cock. It makes him laugh, sharp and crystalline in the back of his throat, and Tamaki seems to take that as encouragement because he comes in farther, takes the other so far back Kyoya can feel himself press against the back of the blond’s throat for a moment before Tamaki coughs and draws back.

His enthusiasm is satisfying, as effective as his movements in spiking Kyoya’s pleasure higher, and for a few minutes Kyoya doesn’t make any move to interrupt the rushed pace of Tamaki’s movements, just watches the motion of the golden head and red-clad shoulders as the other sucks him off with the same energy he brings to everything. It’s not until Kyoya can feel tension spilling into a knot low in his stomach, the tingle of expectation spreading out over his skin, that he tightens his hand in Tamaki’s hair and starts guiding the other’s motion. It’s easy enough, once Tamaki figures out what he wants, and once he’s smoothed out the movement into a rhythm Kyoya can feel the edge coming for him with stunning rapidity, all the heat of Tamaki’s action coalescing into the form he gives it. His foot slips against the floor, his shoulders hunch in until his sweater brushes the top of Tamaki’s head, and then he pulls Tamaki in and holds him there as the anticipation in his body cracks open into certainty, as the anxious reaching goes relaxed and warm and satisfied all at once. He makes a sound so low in his throat it sounds more like an exhale than a groan, pleasure spilling into him as he spills over Tamaki’s warm-wet tongue, and even the little shocked noise Tamaki makes is just an extra surge of heat in him. For a moment there’s no tension anywhere in Kyoya; there’s just ringing satisfaction, white and blank and relieved, and nothing else anywhere matters.

Then reality comes back, bits and pieces reforming themselves into support along his spine, and Kyoya slowly straightens, unwinds his fingers from Tamaki’s hair and lets go so the other can pull away. Tamaki looks ruffled when he draws back, his eyes wide and warm and his lips damp before he lifts a hand to draw the back of his wrist across them. He’s staring at Kyoya’s face, the way he always does, looking a little shocked and a little delighted while the other boy looks down so he can pull his jeans closed and refasten the zipper and button. Even when he looks back up Tamaki still looks shellshocked, like his attention was blown away far more effectively than Kyoya’s was.

Kyoya doesn’t have the patience to wait for him to come back to himself. “Back,” he says, moves before Tamaki has a chance to react. When he pushes against the blond’s shoulder Tamaki topples backwards, knocked off-balance and shaky. There’s a rustle of fabric, the skirt crushing under his weight, and Kyoya reaches down to collect a handful of the cloth, to push his fingers questing underneath the weight of it as he drops to his knees at Tamaki’s feet. He doesn’t ask if it’s okay if he does this while Tamaki is still in the dress; the answer doesn’t matter, it won’t change what he does, and that makes the inquiry just a waste of time. He just pushes, rumples the skirt up around Tamaki’s waist, and when he bares the other boy’s boxers the way they’re taut at the front speaks to the other boy’s distraction from such things as clothing as well.

Kyoya doesn’t pause for a kiss, or to shift his angle, or even to get Tamaki’s clothes more out of the way. It’s enough to drag at the elastic of the other’s waistband, to pull the fabric free with enough force that the blond’s breathing catches in a sharp inhale of shocked response, and then Kyoya is ducking in, grateful to the layers of fabric bunched at Tamaki’s waist for the way they hide the heat of want in his expression. It’s hardly a secret, at this point, but Kyoya likes to maintain appearances when he can, at least, and this is a rare opportunity to do so without having to keep track of the way his eyelashes flutter as he dips his head to wrap his lips around the head of Tamaki’s cock.

The other boy’s hips jerk up, like they always do, like Kyoya knew they would. He’s ready, was reaching to pin the other down before he ever made contact, and Tamaki barely gets an initial jerk before Kyoya is bearing him to the floor. He tastes like heat and a little bit like strawberries, no less sweet for being so inexplicable, and Kyoya purrs some incoherent appreciation as he falls into a smooth rhythm. It’s faster than the one he would set himself, speeding in spite of the even pace of his strokes, but it’s the speed that makes Tamaki moan over him, the pace that brings fingers dragging desperately at his shoulder like Tamaki is trying to gain traction. Kyoya doesn’t slow, doesn’t respond to the touch at all; this is how he likes Tamaki best, after all, helpless and shaking under the heat of his mouth, knees angled wide and fingers clutching uncontrollably against Kyoya’s sleeve. There’s sound, too, something choked and sharp-bright that sounds like Kyoya’s name drawn long and hot, but Kyoya doesn’t care about the sound except as part of the moment, an additional color in the tapestry of the experience forming itself in his mind. He tightens his lips, sucks as he draws back and hums as he dips back in, and Tamaki is curling in above him, Kyoya can feel the strain collecting in the hips held under his fingers. He can hear each of Tamaki’s inhales, his exhales broken apart into incoherent pleas, and then he stops moving, and presses his tongue in against the head of the other’s cock, and Tamaki falls to pieces all at once. His shoulders hit the floor, his breath gusts out of him, and Kyoya’s mouth goes hot as Tamaki comes in separate shivering pulses against his tongue. He swallows fast, breathing taking second place to the motion of his throat, and by the time Tamaki has gone limp and still Kyoya is flushed and gasping for air as he pulls away.

Kyoya’s head is swimming, his thoughts hazy and disjointed from the lack of air and the satisfied heat radiating all under his skin. Tamaki is no better, when he can steady his vision enough to look up at the other; the blond is staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and blank of any real attention. It makes Kyoya smile, certain that Tamaki has forgotten the purpose of this in the first place. He leans in closer, presses his hands to the floor over Tamaki’s shoulders so he can lean in and interpose himself between the light and the other boy’s features.

He doesn’t admit he’s persuaded, doesn’t say he’s convinced of this latest insane scheme. That will come later, when he’s caught his breath and Tamaki recovers enough to remember his original goal. For now it’s enough to kiss the part of the other boy’s mouth, to swallow the pleased surprise that comes up the other’s throat.

Kyoya always knew he would be persuaded. There are few people as convincing as Tamaki.


End file.
